


SFC Ficathon

by jamlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case fic (sort of), Christmas Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, SFC Ficathon, Smut, handjobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8753536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: For the SFC Ficathon.31 prompts + 31 days = one fic. Christmas themed, will probably make little sense but hey, Sherlock and Jim like things abstract.





	1. You should really take off that seasonal jumper

 

**December 1st.**

 

It starts, as these things usually do, with a text. Sherlock pulls his phone out of his jacket without looking away from his microscope, his mind ticking over what the toxin in the blood _means_ rather than watching it on its slide. Administered orally, so it should have been impossible for it to do this much damage without earlier detection, and-

-his thoughts falter as he glances at the screen in his hand. A picture of Jim Moriarty stares out at him, close-up, half-face, one huge brown eye and close stubble, angles and loose-slicked hair. There’s a hint of collar, but it’s not Spencer Hart this time. Sherlock’s forehead quirks and he sits back, utterly derailed. Poisoned blood has nothing on James Moriarty wearing what is, without question, a Christmas jumper.

_Story time, Sherlock. Are you sitting comfortably?_

It’s white. He can see the tips of Christmas trees touching up against the thicker, knitted ridge of the collar, and evenly spaced black bits which might be parts of a snowman’s recurring top hat. 

Sherlock fixes his teeth in his lower lip, then types back. _A little early for festivities, wouldn’t you say? It’s only the first of the month. - - SH_

_Never too early to celebrate, my dear. You’ll be hearing from me very soon._

He considers a reply, but in the end says nothing. There’s no way to respond to this. The only thing he can do, as usual, is wait to see what move Moriarty will make next.

 

 

 


	2. Inappropriate gifts: benefits and drawbacks

 

 

 

**December 2nd.**

 

 

There is a pair of soiled boots on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street in the morning. Sherlock mentally congratulates Mrs Hudson for not touching them this time, and fetching John to deal with them instead. He is less impressed with John for not immediately waking him up, pushing aside his ‘you’d only been in bed a couple of hours’ as irrelevant.

They’re black boots, leather, old. It only takes a few seconds to see that they’re not packed with explosives, a few more to strip them down in his mind ( _overpronator, lots of walking, repaired twice, leather treated often, manual work, middle-aged man, mill? Mine? Factory? need more data…),_ and about thirty before John breaks his silence to ask, ‘were you expecting something today?’

‘Yes. Moriarty was in contact yesterday.’

‘Mori - - Jesus Sherlock, why didn’t you say something!?’

‘Would that have stopped these arriving, or done anything except make you do what you’re doing now?’

‘What am I doing now?’

‘Getting worked up. It’s unhelpful. Where’s your father from?’

‘My fa…what? He’s - Northampton, why?’

‘Northampton. Northampton. Did he work in one of the shoe factories?’

‘No, he was a doctor. I thought you knew that.’

If he did, he’s deleted it. He bends over the boots again, sniffing them. There’s nothing, no odour at all. They’ve not been worn in a long time. They’re not old enough to be war-time, but Army issue is certainly a possibility. Army, but then manual labour. One pair of boots for an entire working life? Sherlock straightens up, and stares at them.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Mm.’

‘What’s he sent you these for?’

He can feel a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. ‘Story time, he said.  It’s a puzzle.’

‘Yes, he always does that. But you don’t have to look so pleased about it. People usually end up dead when he starts playing.’

‘I think someone already is, but that doesn’t mean he killed them. Or maybe he did. Impossible to tell, it’s far too early.’

‘So, what now?’

What now, indeed? He ponders this for the rest of the morning. He sits with crossed legs, and fingers steepled at his lips, staring at the boots. He’s put them on John’s chair so he can see them clearly, and taken samples from the soles. His phone lights up with a text from John at some point around lunch time.

_molly says it’s going to be another hour or two for results_

Sherlock scowls. _Wait for them. I need them. Text me as soon as they come through._

He almost tosses his phone down, but then, on a whim, brings up another number.

_Boots? If this is your idea of a Christmas present, you don’t know me at all. SH._

The reply is almost instantaneous.

_Liar. This is exactly your idea of a good present. Though I will find it hilarious if you actually start wearing them. JM._

_Is this the second part of the story? SH._

_More an extended prologue, darling. You can’t unfold the plot without setting the scene. And you’re welcome to try and work it out, but I warn you, spoilers will only leave you disappointed. JM._

_What’s this for? Are you bored? SH._

_Always. Speak soon, my dear. JM. xxx_

Sherlock stares at the screen, one finger tapping a rapid beat against the side. He wants to tell Moriarty to stop it, that this is boring, and why would he be interested in a pair of old boots? The problem being, it isn’t boring, or it won’t be boring because Moriarty is _never_ boring, and of course he’s interested in a pair of old boots. Of course it’s the perfect present.

He sighs, and puts his phone down. The lab results will either tell him nothing, or send him on a trip to get this thing started. He’d better prepare for either, and he hopes like hell it’s the latter. December means everything winding towards Christmas, a pointless holiday that makes stupidity rise, clients disappear, and reason sink into a sea of wine and mince pies.

It occurs to him, as he gets dressed, that perhaps that’s why Moriarty is doing this. If there was anyone who’d share his lack of sentiment about the whole stupid affair, it would be him. Maybe even the criminal classes spend their money on gifts, rather than consulting services.

As he buttons his jacket, it also occurs to him that perhaps he shouldn’t feel fine with being a psychopath’s go-to distraction. But he does, so there it is. He's not going to feel bad about it. He’s not going to lie to himself, and pretend this isn’t _fun_. Perhaps, just this one year, Christmas might bring something that can surprise him. And he's never going to turn away from that.

 

 


	3. Love, Actually: That porn stunt double does not look like me AT ALL what are you on about

 

 

**December 3rd.**

 

There was nothing on the boots. They were so clean it was like they’d been sterilised. It doesn’t make any _sense._ John’s stopped trying to make suggestions and has resorted to TV, while Sherlock stares at the boots, and stares at them and stares at them, and they remain just that. A pair of boots. 

‘Sherlock, seriously, calm down. You’re going to burn a hole through them at this rate. You realise he’s just trying to wind you up?’

‘Oh, you know that, do you?'

‘No. No, I’m not saying I know anything about him. But you don’t either, and it’s as good an explanation as any.’

‘He wouldn’t have sent them for no reason.’

‘And maybe that reason won’t turn up until he does something else. Sitting up all night glaring at them won’t make a difference.’

‘John-‘

‘No, I mean it. Sit down properly, or I’m chucking them out the sodding window.’

He’s got that look on his face that says he means it. Sherlock sticks his jaw out stubbornly, then sighs and goes from crouching on the seat of his chair to sitting on it, in one dramatic jump.

‘Fine.’

John nods. Fine. Good. Sherlock’s fingers tap incessant rhythms on the armrests, trying to ignore the boots.

‘…John?’

‘Yes, Sherlock?’

‘What are we watching?’

‘ _Love, Actually_. You must have- - oh come on, don’t tell me you’ve never see _Love, Actually_. It’s the-‘

‘Why are you in it, pretending to be a porn star? You never told me you'd done acting work. Wouldn’t you have been serving when this came out?’

‘What are you talking about?’

Sherlock nods towards the screen. John stares at it, then back at him, then at the screen again.

‘What?’

‘Oh, come on. You don’t mean that’s _not_ you?’

It’s not him, but does look remarkably similar.  Sherlock watches a look of confusion cross John’s face as the version on-screen simulates sex with a blonde, Welsh girl. And then he starts to splutter, ‘shut up, that doesn’t look anything like me.’

‘And yet, it’s close enough for you to get defensive, so you recognise the similarity even as you dismiss it. You’re built the same as that man, and while the hair might be-‘

‘All right, fine! I give up. Go back to staring at the bloody boots.’

Sherlock smirks, and pushes back up to his crouch, steepling his fingers and returning his focus to where it should be.

Why hasn’t he been in contact? What’s he _doing?_

 

 

*

 

 

Not too far away, a tall man leans on a doorframe, crosses his arms and stares into a darkened room. He can only see the outline of a head, silhouetted by the far window, but he doesn’t need any more than that.

He wants to say, _just pick up the phone and talk to him_ , but it’s more than his job’s worth. If it were anyone else, he could say it. Probably. But not when it’s to do with the Virgin.

‘Need me for anything else tonight?’

He waits ten seconds for an answer, or movement, or acknowledgement. Met with nothing, he nods and leaves the house silently, making sure to lock everything up as he goes. 

 

 

 


	4. Yes, there is a Santa Claus

 

 

 

**December 4th.**

 

The morning ticks by. Lunch is ignored. John is working himself into a silent rage about Sherlock’s impatience, his lack of sleeping, his lack of eating (‘stop using a case as an excuse, this isn’t a case until you’ve got a lead to follow’), his inability to focus on anything that isn’t _this_. 

‘I’m going out. I’d tell you not to follow me, but I don’t think it’s an issue today, is it?’

‘Goodbye, John.’

If it were anyone else, maybe he would let it go. Not dismiss it, just file it away until more data became available. But Moriarty doesn’t do things without a reason. He sent a photo to show he was wearing a Christmas jumper, and it’s December. Even normal people wouldn’t see that as a coincidence. 

Besides, there’s…something. _Something_. He can’t put his finger on it, but it nibbles away at the back of his mind, a constant, silent pressure.

John arrives back with bags full of shopping, and an Indian takeaway. Sherlock eats without argument but without really tasting it either, unable to settle. He plays violin until John asks him for an hour of peace  so he can write Christmas cards and update the blog. For some reason, crashing through Tchaikovsky is not conducive to easing everyone’s thought process. So, there’s inane television, and a piece of naan bread going cold in his hand, and John in his chair talking about Harry and her latest attempt to get dry. Sherlock watches him as he writes, head down and hair going grey, caring so much about this sister he doesn’t get on with and who is definitely not going to manage to stay sober over Christmas. What must it be like, to know that someone will fail and still say, _I really think it’ll be different this time._ What does that blind faith feel like? Sherlock’s never had to consider it. Mycroft always does exactly what he says he’ll do, and never wavers, and never breaks. 

John closes the card he’s writing. He looks up and opens his mouth to speak. But now the world is slowing, stretching out, time on pause as realisation hits, the picture on the card flashing like a bomb in the darkness. Sherlock can’t breathe. For a long, long second, he can’t _breathe_ , because the world might have ground to a halt but his mind has exploded and it’s everything, all at once, _everything_ , but he still doesn’t know what it _means._

He points at the card. 

‘That. What’s that?’

John frowns, and looks down. ‘Father Christmas?’

Yes, it is, isn’t it? Father Christmas with a giant sack of toys, a sleigh on a roof, reindeer, one foot down the chimney and the other clad in one big, black, _boot_. 

Father Christmas. 

Sherlock’s eyes flit from left to right, like there might be someone watching. He swallows hard, and snatches up his phone. Skin is puckering at the back of his neck, pulling into goose pimples. Hair is rising, and he can taste adrenaline in his mouth, or is it spit, or is it _fear?_  

He gets up and starts to pace, his dressing gown swirling around him as John watches, open-mouthed, uncomprehending.

‘Mycroft.’

‘Little Brother. To what do I owe the-‘

‘ _Christmas_.’

‘…yeeeeees, it’s a thing people do at this time of year, isn’t it? I seem to recall-‘

‘I seem to recall too. What does _he_ have to do with it?’

Mycroft’s voice changes, from the usual faintly condescending sarcasm to a sigh of- ‘you’re not making any sense, Sherlock. I’ve a rather important meeting in ten minutes, so if you could-‘

‘Father Christmas. Redbeard.’

Silence. Sherlock stops pacing. He looks at himself in the mirror, and sees that he’s pale, a cold sweat starting to break over his forehead. He can’t feel it. He wants to run from this, and never think about it, but now Moriarty of all people…he can’t know anything about it, can he? How could he know anything about it?

‘…Sherlock, is this really the best time for this?’

‘He’s been in touch. Moriarty. So I’ll ask you again, _what does he have to do with it?_ ’

He’d normally love Mycroft being rendered speechless. Not tonight. 

‘I really do have a meeting to get to, and it’s going to run late. Why don’t you come to the club in the morning-‘

‘I’m not waiting until morning.’

‘Fine, then come now, and I’ll see you afterwards. It won’t be until after midnight, I warn you. And there’s no point to the conversation. I’m suggesting it simply because you won’t let it go until we’ve had it.’

‘Midnight.’ 

He hangs up, and drops his phone. The promise of activity helps, but it’s still going to be hours. He should probably text Moriarty, but he can’t until he gets back on top of his game. 

‘Sherlock?’

‘I have to go and see Mycroft.’

‘I got that. Do you want me t-‘

‘No.’

He snaps it out too fast, and takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘Sorry. No. It won’t be necessary. I’d-‘

‘It’s all right. Sherlock, it’s fine. You don’t have to tell me.’

Sometimes he thinks he might love John. Of course he loves John, as a friend and a flatmate, and far more than that; someone to share his life with, and let see him in a way most other people don’t, or can’t. But sometimes, he thinks he could actually _love_ him.

‘It’s…I will. I will tell you. I just need-‘

‘It’s fine. Honestly.’

‘I have to go and see Mycroft.’

‘Yeah, you said. It’s fine. You go. I’ll see you when you get back.’

He goes to dress properly, aware that John will wait up, even if it takes all night. And that’s probably why he could never really love him, but it doesn’t matter now, not right now, not when- - 

He stands for a moment, his forehead resting on the back of his door. He’d try and convince himself he’s wrong, but sometimes people just know, and Sherlock Holmes knows a lot more than most people. When realisation hits, that’s it. There’s no going back to ignorance.

But there’s no harm in looking for evidence, just in case you have to prove it later. Sherlock walks into the kitchen, and turns the boots over in his hand.

‘Did these come in a bag, John?’

‘A box.’

‘Do you still-?’

John’s already moving, picking it up from beside the bin and handing it over. It’s just a cardboard box from a supermarket, plain brown, no indication of what was once packed in it. Sherlock prises the bottom apart so it can be pushed flat, and that’s when the light glints off something. It looks like a shard of rubbish or a cardboard shaving, tiny and unnoticeable. But it shines, and when Sherlock picks it up it is unmistakably one tiny sliver of tinsel. Red tinsel.

‘What does it mean?’

He doesn’t answer. He just puts his coat on, and walks away. There is a reason he hates this time of year, and it’s not _just_ because it’s stupid. But Moriarty shouldn’t know that. No one should. It’s just not possible. 

 

 

 


	5. Mistletoe, or why kissing under a parasitic plant is a terrible idea.

 

 

**December 5th.**

 

 

The text that flashes up is not giving information on Sherlock, or Watson, or the Iceman. It’s asking whether they’ll be at the house for Christmas this year, and if so, are there going to be decorations?

He has complicated feelings for Sebastian, but sometimes he really does think killing him would be a kindness.

He sets the phone down, text unanswered, and closes his eyes. Sherlock is being slow. So very slow. He is always so _slow_ , though it’s not really his fault; the nature of his profession means he has no choice but to be a reactionary force, only spurred to movement at the incentive of others. At _his_ incentive, more often than not, albeit with many many layers in between them.

He is so sick of the layers. He can feel his own rage, contained all these years, starting to burn through them one by one. He showed himself a few months ago, but he was protected by the necessity of the plan. Rage in a glass bottle; as long as Sherlock didn’t touch, he wouldn’t get burned. Not yet, not _yet_ , but it’s coming because he can’t bear too many people between them now, and sometimes he just wants to take the knife himself, and slice through everyone stupid enough to stand in his way.

But these are the thoughts that come late at night, or at the end of days without sleep, when even he’s pleading with himself to just shut up. And that’s why he won’t kill Sebastian, because he has his uses at those times - which are more frequent than he’d care to admit - and anyway, the man’s handy with a rifle. 

_if not decorations then mistletoe at least_

_Sebastian Moran, you are an alumnus of Eton and would have graduated with honours from Exeter College, Oxford, if you weren’t such a fuckwit. For the love of all things holy, use punctuation when you talk to me._

_Sorry, Boss. Can we have mistletoe, please?_

_Where is he?_

_Went into the Diogenes half an hour ago. I can probably get in, if you like? Listen in to the conversation?_

_Not necessary. Tell me when the brother arrives, and what happens when they leave. Whether he has a lift, or walks, or gets a cab._

_Done._

The thing with Sherlock is that if you poke his buttons out of nowhere, he jumps a mile into the air and comes down flailing. Flailing, but _thinking_ , and most of the time he has a solution before he hits the floor. That kind of brain deserves respect. It deserves reverence. But it also needs to be put in its place, and there’s no one in the world capable but Jim Moriarty. The Iceman could do it, but he’s devoted to his brother. There’s no one else. No one else cares enough to _see_ , and Jim hates them all for it; hates Sherlock, hates himself for caring, but mostly hates everyone and everything else. It makes him sick, the things the world has done, and by God he will make it pay.

 

 

*

 

‘Sherlock.’

Mycroft is in navy blue, as pressed and primped as he would have been when he left his house at seven o clock this morning. There is no sign of fatigue around the eyes, or in the creases of his mouth. Why would there be? He’s been sitting all day, and nothing he would have come across would stretch his mental faculties. Mycroft could juggle the problems of government while reclining in an armchair at home, while doing the _Times_ crossword. But government will insist on being made up of hundreds of other people as well, and they tend to prefer being met face-to-face. 

Sherlock looks him over, then goes back to staring into the middle distance. He’s been trying to collect his thoughts all evening, aided by a whiskey glass at his elbow that he hasn’t actually touched. Just the promise of it, the smell, knowing it’s there, that’s enough. He doesn’t have to drink it.

‘Tell me, Mycroft.’

‘I can’t.’ He sets his umbrella against a bookshelf, takes a drink himself, and sits down. ‘Because I don’t know.’

‘You must know. You know everything.’

‘Ah. No. I know it must seem so to you, but I assure you, I do not. Especially about this.’

On a normal day, Sherlock would respond to that with any number of bitchy comments, but not tonight. He just waits. Mycroft sighs, and takes a drink.

‘What has he said to you?’

‘Nothing. He sent me a photo. He was wearing a Christmas jumper. And then a pair of- look it doesn’t matter. This is about the season. There’s only one thing-‘

‘Yes.’

It would seem stupid to anyone else, probably. Losing a dog. But that wasn’t all, was it? There is some haze around the time, but he seems to remember there being _more_. 

‘He can’t have been there, Sherlock.’

‘Why not? He was in Sussex when Carl Powers died. We don’t know how long he was there, though obviously the accent tells a story. Have you found out if it’s real, or not?’

‘Analysis points to it being genuine. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of him faking.’

‘He had to be in Dublin long enough for it to settle, and not here long enough to lose it. So he must have gone back.’

‘And he was in Sussex when he was around twelve. If you’re right and he’s connected with Redbeard, he must have been there two years before.’

‘If you’re even right about his age.’

‘You know we don’t know for sure. If you think you can do better with his personal history, do feel free to show both intelligence services how it’s done. I’m sure the JIC will be agog, watching you work.’

Sherlock lets this pass too, though he’s fairly confident his methods would put a number of Five and Six operatives to shame. Mycroft probably knows it too, or perhaps he’s being sensitive to a subject he knows is difficult, because he lets the silence run for a while. 

‘He said he was going to burn the heart out of me.’

‘And he thinks it hasn’t been done before?’

Sherlock closes his eyes. He can still smell Redbeard’s fur. He can still remember the sun-warmed silk of it after a day playing around the orchard. It was so long, and so red, and so _red_ but it hadn’t concealed the blood in the end; he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real no matter how hard he tried. 

‘Do you think he killed him?’

‘I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t see how he could have. I don’t see how he would have known about you at all. You were ten, and he must have been about the same. Do I think he’s capable? Yes, absolutely. But he might not have even been in the country.’

‘He must exist somewhere. Why can’t you find him?’

‘He’s a genius, with a talent for computers. He appears to have erased all record of his existence. You know as well as I do that if you’re not in the system, you might as well not be a person.’

Sherlock thinks Moriarty is not a person. He’s willing to bet Moriarty thinks Moriarty is not a person. 

‘But if he did kill him, _why?_ Why would he hate me that much, at that age?’

‘Is that what you came here to ask me?’

‘If anyone knows the answer, it’s you. Unless I ask-‘

‘Don’t. Don’t you dare.’

Sherlock’s mouth twitches up at the corner, a bitter twist he doesn’t bother to conceal. Mycroft stares back at it, ready to stand his ground.

‘I may not have a choice. He’s looking for my attention for a reason. If he was there, he wants me to know why.’

‘Have you considered-‘

‘-what?’

‘Not playing his game? Leaving it alone?’

‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response, other than to point out that you are depressingly obvious when you’re being self-serving, Mycroft.’

‘Meaning you think I’m hiding something, and I’d rather you stayed away from this?’

‘You might as well have just admitted you are, and do.’

Mycroft waves a hand, though the action has a forced air to it. ‘Deduce as you like, brother mine. It’s very late, and I did warn you this conversation would have no point.’ He stands up, and buttons his jacket neatly. ‘I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what he knows, or if he was there, or if he had anything to do with your dog. I just know that if you go along with this, he will hurt you very badly. So yes, I would like you to stay away from it.’

‘You know I won’t.’

‘Of course I know you won’t. Why don’t you go home, Sherlock? Talk to John. It’ll help you, I should think.’

He opens his mouth to refute that, but then doesn’t. Can’t, won’t. John does help him whenever he’s able, and he’s able to quite a lot. But Sherlock doesn’t stand up yet.

‘If I found out you’ve known all along, Mycroft, I’m going to-‘

‘What? Be very cross? Refuse to talk to me again?’

Now he stands, buttoning his jacket too. He feels rumpled next to Mycroft, always, but it doesn’t bother him. He’s pleased about being less fastidious, about being perfectly willing to ruin a designer suit in pursuit of a criminal.

‘No, Mycroft. I’ll tell Mummy. Can you imagine how disappointed she’ll be?’

It was interesting, he thinks, five minutes later, walking down the street away from the club. They always used to threaten the other with telling Mummy. It’s always been something of a joke, except the times it hasn’t.

But Mycroft’s never gone that white before. He’s never said _don’t_ , and meant it. It’s interesting on the analytical level he prefers…but this case is falling out of the realms of analytical, and into something too personal to stand. But he no choice. He can’t, won’t, walk away.

 

 

*

 

 

_He’s walking_. _They didn’t come out together. He doesn’t look his normal self-satisfied self._

Jim puts the phone down again, fingertips tapping the screen. Eventually; _I hope you’re following him._

_Of course, Boss. He seems to be heading to the flat._

_See him home safe, Sebastian, and I’ll let you get the mistletoe._

He hits ‘send’ and immediately types another. 

_Productive meeting, I hope? JM._

The reply comes almost at once, as if Sherlock already had the phone in his hand.

_We should meet. I want to talk to you. SH._

_They’ve invented this wonderful thing called the telephone now, you know. You should look into it. JM._

_Meet me. Or do you only feel safe behind your screens? SH._

_Yes, obviously, the fact I’ve voluntarily faced you twice supports that. If you’re going to try and get a rise out of me, aim for something higher than playground mentality, darling. JM._

_Meet me. SH._

Jim’s fingers tap the screen. It’s both a bad idea, and exactly what he wants to do. When does he _not_ want to be in a room with Sherlock Holmes? It would move the timetable for this up a bit, but not by too much.

But he never acts without thinking it through properly, and there’s no rush anyway. December is a long month.

_I’ll be in touch. JM._

_I’ll be waiting. SH._

Isn’t that the most delicious text in the world? Sherlock Holmes, waiting by his phone. A smile cracks Jim’s mask for the first time in two days, and something like heat licks up through his chest. Yes, that’s good. He likes that. 

_He’s back home, Boss. Want me to stay and watch?_

_No. Come back to the house. And yes, Sebastian, I’ll even kiss you under the stupid, bug-infested stuff_. 

He might be thinking of someone else when he does it. He might not. It’s not important; nothing is, except that he feels like he exists for the first time in days, and that’s something that needs to be celebrated. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JIC = Joint Intelligence Committee


	6. What? The heat’s not working?

 

 

 

**December 6th.**

 

Despite the implied promise of his text, Jim had not been around when Sebastian got back to the house. He was locked in his bedroom - really a suite of rooms he keeps separate from the main house - which meant he wasn’t to be disturbed. Seb went to bed only mildly disappointed, had a quiet wank and went to sleep. It’s not like this is the first time Jim’s words and actions haven’t matched up.

It’s not weird that he doesn’t appear through the morning either, with no texts and no instructions. Contrary to what rumours say, Moriarty does not have to kill a person every single day, nor does he do it simply for fun - the vast majority of the time - nor is he a sadist that delights in the sight of any random blood. He’s a specialist. He does things for a reason, or for money, or because there’s a years-long plan in operation that he hasn’t shared with anyone yet. Killings may look random, but that doesn’t mean the reason for them won’t become clear in five years’ time.

Sebastian goes for a ten mile run, eating up Hampstead Heath like it’s a kiddie’s sports-day field. He hits the gym afterwards, an underground boxing hall that doesn’t have any shiny machines, or resistance bands, or colour coordinated dumbbell racks under wall-to-ceiling mirrors. It’s dank, and hot, and reeks of sweat, with yellow walls that hark back to the Seventies, when it was perfectly normal to stop for a fag in between sparring bouts. Seb hits a punchbag for an hour, and refuses two requests to step into the ring. The guys in here are tough, and though Seb knows he can take them - he doesn’t just box, he uses any means necessary to win - he’s not risking a stray elbow or knuckle doing damage that’ll get in the way of work. Not when there appears to be a job on.

He showers at the gym, and heads back to the house on foot. Is there a job on, though? Because Jim _is_ a specialist, and he does things for a reason, or for money, but this thing with Holmes…Seb doesn't know what this is. It might fall into the third category; it definitely feels like something’s been in the works for a long time. But Jim usually gives a hint or two, or tells part of it, because Seb needs context to be able to operate most efficiently. Another thing rumours have got wrong. Jim is absolutely a dictator but he also understands people, and people don’t often work well in a vacuum. Seb could follow orders and nothing more; the Army beat that into him hard. But they also need leaders to think and interpret, and be able to act on their own initiative in tight situations. Sandhurst taught him strategy, and Jim Moriarty took those skills and honed them to a laser point. He doesn't just expect Seb to think, he demands it. He’d kill him if he couldn’t. So yes, Jim usually lets him in on at least part of what he’s doing.

But not this time. This time, he’s said nothing. It’s weird, but it hasn’t gone on long enough to be properly unnerving. Something to keep an eye on, though.

Seb unlocks the front door, which leads to a closed porch. Away from the eyes of the street, he stands still for the retina scan, presses his thumb to the access pad, and punches in a ten-digit code. The door opens to a wide, opulent hallway, with a staircase curving up to one side in a delicate crescent, black and white floor tiles shining across to the far wall, where doors lead off to various rooms that hardly ever get used. Seb drops his bag next to the coat stand, and rolls his shoulders. The house is freezing cold. It shouldn’t be freezing cold. Jim likes things warm.

‘Jim?’

Nothing. Seb purses his lips, and waits. There’s no sound at all. Jim’s not talking to himself, playing the piano, blasting music through the speakers in every wall. Complete silence is not that unusual either, but again, there’s usually some reason for it. Seb knows better than anyone how much Jim hates silence during daylight hours.

He pulls a gun from a hidden pocket of his bag, and screws a silencer on as he slips his boots off and leaves them on the mat. He walks on silent feet, easing into the front room to his left. The doors make no sound; there had been a fight about that once, because Seb maintains that noisy doors let you know when people are coming. But Jim can’t stand repetitive noises, to the degree that he has caused physical harm to people who can’t remember not to tap, or scratch, or rustle their clothes when they walk. So the doors are silent, just as the room is. Empty, freezing, unused. 

He walks on to the dining room, to the kitchen, a tour of the ground floor that runs in a linked half-circle around the central entrance hall. The games room has been used since yesterday. There’s a tear in the snooker table’s green baize. Not surprising. Jim has no patience with a game that relies on spin, angles, force. It’s all maths, and far too easy for him. Seb tried to teach him trick shots once, but Jim just looked at him for ten minutes and then started making up his own, creating shots that would make a professional weep. _It’s just numbers_ , he had said eventually, dropped his cue on the floor and walked away. 

There’s no one down here. There’s no one in the basement gym, or the laundry rooms, and no sign of disturbance. Security measures are still in place. The heating system isn’t broken either, which causes Seb to lower his weapon and relax somewhat. Jim must have turned it off on purpose.

As the pistol comes down, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

_Why are you skulking around the house like a burglar?_

Maybe he should be annoyed - and he is, a bit; this shit is what he’s _paid_ for - but he smiles instead. 

_Trying to work out why we’re living in the Arctic. Be right up._

Jim’s in the upstairs office, sprawled in his enormous leather chair. Sebastian had been about to follow up his glib text with a glib remark, but it dies on his lips when he sees that his boss, and sometime partner - (fuckbuddy? boyfriend? he doesn’t know) - is wearing only a pair of loose jogging bottoms. No socks, no shirt, no shoes, and he’s scrolling down his phone with fingers that are stiff with cold. The window is open, letting in early December chill. Jesus, _Seb’s_ cold, and he’s in jeans, jumper and coat. 

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Jim doesn’t even look up. He’s normally fluid, warm oil, insidious like a snake, every word and gesture coiling around his latest victim - (and everyone is a victim in the end, _everyone_ ) - tangling through their legs and around their ribs, squeezing air out bit by bit until they’re hung by their own stupidity, Jim wrapped around their throat and smiling as they die.

And now he looks like a child. His hair is sticking out, and the white, goose-pimpled skin stretched over his bones is too stark against the black leather of his chair. Jim is small, and yet fills every room he walks into. He could silence St. Paul’s with a raised eyebrow. Today, he-

-Seb wets his lips, conscious of how the air makes the moisture burn with cold. The skin puckers tight under it, forcing him to stretch his mouth to avoid dryness turning to cracks. Jim doesn’t look up. His eyelids are at half-mast, and he’s too cold to shiver. Seb swears under his breath, rouses himself from the disjointed sense of _wrongness_ at seeing him like this, and goes to fetch clothes. He says nothing when he comes back, not until he’s gone to his knees and pushed ski socks onto Jim’s unresisting feet, not until he hears a hiss of pain at circulation starting to tingle through him again.

‘Is this like before, with the heat?’

Jim swivels his eyes to look at him, finally. They’re always bottomless, always dark, always dead unless he’s playing a part which forces him to inject life. But now they’re just two pits of nothing, the man retreated so far into his own head that he could have got hypothermia and not recognised it was happening to him.

Seb leaves the clothes on the floor and manhandles him to standing, supporting his weight with an arm around his back. Jim walks with dragging feet, autopilot locked in, leaning heavily. It’s been a long time since he’s got like this, so long Seb thought that was only a one-off. It had been scary as fuck that time, too. 

‘Does it hurt, boss?’

Jim blinks once, which is good. At least he heard him. Seb deposits him none-too-gently onto his bed, pulls off his own clothes and gets in behind him. The duvet and blanket are both thick and plush, and he wraps it around the two of them, cocooning them in as he pulls Jim’s back against his chest. 

‘Don’t go to sleep yet.’

He sees his eyelashes twitch up and down, the closest to an answer he’ll get for a while. It’s odd, really. If he sent a text now, he’d get a coherent answer, albeit one typed more slowly than usual. When Jim disassociates from his body, his mind still works the same. It’s just…somewhere else. It makes him almost impossible to torture. Seb knows, because Jim has him test it sometimes. He doesn’t let himself get soft, refuses to allow himself to start fearing pain. It doesn’t matter that almost no one knows what he looks like, so the chances of abduction are miniscule. It’s all just in case. Moriarty never cuts corners, not even with himself. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts. 

‘Is this to do with Sherlock?’

Another blink. He’s starting to tremble now, his skin waxy and hard but starting to warm. It’s probably agony, but the chances are he’s not feeling it. He’ll be sunk away for a while yet.

Seb presses a kiss to his shoulder, and then another under his ear, a sensitive patch he knows Jim wishes he hadn’t worked out. Teased at the right time, with the right pressure of tongue, and he can be made to moan. It’s a hard-won fact, one of very few gleaned in all the years of their partnership. Just like he knows that when he comes back to himself, Jim will offer no thanks for this, show no embarrassment, and probably give no explanation or sign that it happened at all. Whatever demon lives inside that head, corkscrewing the world so Jim can make it pop, will tell him that this is all perfectly normal. Last time it happened and Seb pulled him back from the brink of death-by-dehydration, Jim had dismissed the _what the fuck?_ questions with a wave of his hand, and started typing on his phone. When Seb demanded answers, he was told, _this is what I pay you for, bodyguard. To guard my body._ God knows Jim won’t do it himself.

He’d thought a lot about why he’d push himself so far, back then. The best answer he could come up with was that he was testing himself, for reasons he didn’t care to elaborate on. Now, Seb thinks maybe it is just complete disregard for his own self. It had been because of a case last time too, if he remembers right. Maybe this is just training. 

‘Stop thinking.’

It’s a quiet murmur, drowsy and soft. A smile cracks Seb’s face, and relief melts the ball of tension in his chest all at once, sweeping through the space left behind like a summer breeze.

‘Sorry, boss. Go on to sleep now, if you want.’

There’s a minuscule nod, and Jim’s breathing evens out. Seb runs fingers through that luscious black hair just once, and then settles down behind him. He’ll sleep in a little while too. For now, it’s fine to just lie here, trying to make sense of the man in his arms. But James Moriarty isn’t a man, that’s the problem. He’s a rope puzzle, no beginning and no end, no way to unpick the knot. He twists and turns so often, there’s no way of knowing whether you’re looking at the inside or outside, or just what he wants you to see. The longer you spend searching, the more you realise you’re hopelessly, helplessly, lost.

 

 

 


	7. There is an overabundance of seasonally appropriate decor in this flat

 

 

 

**December 7th.**

 

John looks over the top of his paper when he hears Mrs Hudson head for the front door, listening to see if she’ll find Sherlock on the other side. It wouldn’t be like him to lose his key, and he probably wouldn’t knock if he had; he’d text, and get John to come and let him in. But after two days of radio silence, which meant finally caving and calling Mycroft, he’ll take any explanation for this.

It’s not Sherlock. John can, by now, recognise the measured tread with accompanying _click click_ of umbrella tip on the floor. He folds his ‘paper and stands up, turning in time to gesture Mycroft straight in.

‘Doctor Watson. Good morning.’

‘Hello, Mycroft. Tea?’

‘I won’t, thank you. I can’t stay. I just thought you might prefer to hear it face-to-face.’

‘Hear - sorry, what?’

Mycroft pulls that face he likes. The _oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about? How odd,_ face. It’s worse than when Sherlock does it, even if it’s more polite in a lot of ways. Maybe that’s it. It’s far too polite _not_ to be condescending. 

‘That my brother is fine. He’ll be home soon, no doubt.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes, thank you.’ He bunches his fingers into fists at his side, then relaxes them again. A quick gesture, a sign of tension and uncertainty rather than anything violent. ‘You’ve spoken to him, then?’

‘Mm? Oh, no. Not since he came to the club. I simply know where he is.’

‘Right. And where’s that, then?’

‘Oh, that doesn’t really matter. He’s thinking.’

Mycroft’s turning, looking at the walls and furniture. His eyes fall on the boxes of Christmas decorations lined up on the sofa. Some of the lights and tinsel are new, bought with a vague sense that an effort should be made. Most are relics of decades ago, dug up by Mrs Hudson. She said she wouldn’t use most of them, and John should take what he liked.

‘Getting ready to celebrate the season, I see?’

‘Yes, well. Thought it’d brighten the place up a bit, you know how it is.’

Mycroft says, ‘yeeeeees,’ with a smile, in a tone of voice that conveys how little he knows any such thing. John suspects that if a decoration is allowed near Mycroft’s house, wherever such a place might be, it will be displayed with a sense of appropriateness, rather than to project any actual good cheer.

‘Still,’ he goes on, ‘I would say there is already an overabundance of seasonally appropriate decor on show.’

‘Sorry? I haven’t put any of it up yet.’

‘My point exactly. It’s not Christmas yet, is it?’

He’s still smiling. John stares at him for a moment, then shakes himself. ‘Did you really come to talk about baubles and fairy lights, Mycroft?’

‘No, I suppose not. Just making chit-chat.’

No doubt John is supposed to appreciate the attempt to put him at his ease. He sometimes - often - wonders if the Holmes brothers know how disconcerting it is when they try to do that, and suspects the answer is _yes_.

‘Right. So, Sherlock’ll be back soon then, you think? I know he disappears a lot, but he usually responds to texts even if it takes him a day.’

Mycroft’s smile becomes ever so slightly fixed. Then he lets out the tiniest of sighs. John recognises this one. It’s his _my little brother is a cross I have to bear_ , sigh. 

‘Has he mentioned anything to you of what’s going on?’

‘He said Moriarty had been in touch. And there was…I don’t know. He got upset, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He went to see you.’

‘Yes. Well, he’ll be fine. As I said, I expect him back. He’ll no doubt have some hare-brained scheme on his mind. I suppose you can’t be relied upon to tell me what it is, when he shares it with you?’

‘You already know the answer to that.’

‘I do. But I also know you _can_ be relied upon to watch out for him when he goes off on it. But, John-‘

Mycroft is close, suddenly. Not in his space, not overbearing in any physical way. But this is how the man’s concern shows itself; a sudden tightening of focus, and tone, and eye contact. He and Sherlock may not look much alike, but they share the ability to command with their gaze alone. John doesn’t have much trouble resisting Mycroft’s attempts, but only when Sherlock’s welfare doesn’t depend on it. This time, maybe it does. He’s hardly ever been as upset as he was the other night. 

‘He’s going to want to talk to Moriarty. Under no circumstances should he do it. I know stopping him is…difficult. Perhaps impossible. But no good will come of it.’

John holds his gaze. ‘Why’s that, then? Are you afraid of something Sherlock might hear?’

‘Anything he hears will be a lie. But he might want to believe it, that’s the trouble.’

He might want to believe something he’s told by Jim Moriarty? Sherlock knows better than that. John is very still for a moment, and then straightens his shoulders a fraction, sliding away from the tension starting to build. 

‘Sherlock would never trust that man. He’s not an idiot.’

‘From your point of view, that must certainly seem true.’

The condescension is firmly back in place. It makes it easy for Mycroft’s words to lose their weight. Or perhaps it’s because they’re a mask, identifiable as fake on some unknowable level, and therefore simple to step away from.

‘Are you intending to stay in Baker Street for Christmas, Doctor Watson? Not off to see family, friends, any of that?’

‘No. Uhhh…no. No plans. Probably spend the night at my girlfriend’s, but I’ll be here in the day.’

‘Ah. Sarah, yes. The other excellent doctor. Very good.’

Mycroft’s walking to the door as John opens his mouth to agree, or utter a final pleasantry. He shuts it again, when he realises he’s never told Mycroft about Sarah, and he very much doubt Sherlock even remembers her name.

‘How did you-?’

‘Good day, John. See you very soon, I expect.’

And that’s it. John’s left standing in his own living room, little wiser than before, vaguely confused, and with the feeling he’s just been insulted. 

Which really, he decides with a huff, is an interaction with a Holmes in a nutshell. If he weren’t so bloody worried about Sherlock, he’d be pissed off about it. As it is, he goes to make tea in an effort to stop himself texting him for the seventh time this morning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas has rather got in the way of this story. In RL that is, not on the page. I'll try to catch up very soon! And I promise we're back to Sherlock in the next chapter. Sherlock and Jim, in fact.


	8. The Grinch, Scrooge, and Other Holiday Enemies You Might Currently Be Acting Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Christmas is over, I might actually be able to finish my Christmas fic.

 

 

 

**December 8th.**

 

The Four Seasons obviously has no qualms about getting into the festive spirit early. The lobby sports an enormous Christmas tree, there are garlands everywhere, and the strains of classical music have a distinct Yuletide bent. Lights twinkle at him from every direction, pressing in, causing a faint tendril of dread to wind its way through the adrenaline revving through his system. Both sensations war with fatigue; he hasn’t slept much for the past few days, thinking and thinking and _thinking_ , waiting for the text that only arrived this morning. 

_The Four Seasons, 11am. Ask for John Mahone. JM. xxx_

It’s four minutes to the hour. He waits until two more tick by, forcing himself not to fidget even though heat is rising under the collar of his Belstaff. It’s too hot in here, too many rich tourists in town for the Christmas shopping, voices and accents crashing together and grating against the music. It’s a relief when he walks to the desk to make his request. The concierge nods at once, his face closing over at mention of the name, and has a bellboy lead him down a corridor away from the noise. Sherlock has time to consider that expression as they walk, but isn’t surprised by it. He’s only met Moriarty twice, once entirely unmemorable, and once a scene that is burned into his hard drive forever. He has no doubt the man can inspire whatever emotion he chooses to in anyone at all. A few days ago, he would have counted himself as an exception. Now, not so much. 

‘Here you are, sir. I’m not to go in, but the message said you didn’t have to knock.’

Sherlock tips him a fiver for his trouble, and opens the door.

It’s a tasteful scene. A private reception room, no doubt usually pressed into use for business meetings that want to give the impression of informality. Or an old boy’s club; the heavy furniture and brushed velvet wallpaper wouldn't look out of place in some of Mycroft’s favourite haunts. There’s a Christmas tree in here too, but nothing glaring out of place, no music, nothing outlandish. A log fire, a small table bearing tea and cake between two armchairs. The only thing out of place is Moriarty himself.

If he’d been wearing a different colour suit, or a different _cut_ of suit, perhaps he’d blend in perfectly. Something double-breasted, or hunting style, would match him perfectly with the surroundings. But he’s in Westwood again; perfect black, lying over a shirt so crisp and white it looks like it could slice thin air in two. His tie is the only colour on him; deep, deep red, catching the firelight and flashing hints of blood. Against his white face, perfectly styled black hair, and eyes so deep they look like they absorb the light, the man looks like a razor blade wrapped in midnight. Danger encased in fabric that’ll burn away, the second he chooses to let it off the leash.

Sherlock feels something inside rear up, coming to meet the challenge. On the surface, he almost takes a step back. But his discomfort from the lobby melts to nothing, as a quiet part of his brain unfolds itself and  stands tall. 

‘Moriarty,’ he says, perfectly polite. 

Jim rolls his eyes up to look at him without moving his head. His fingertips ripple across the leather arm of his seat, one silent tap each before falling still. He stretches his neck to the side.

‘Six seconds from being late. I’d have got up and left.’

‘Perfect timing then.’

‘Mm.’ Moriarty appears to be thinking of something that is not to do with anything in this room. Then he tilts his head towards the other chair and straightens up, uncrossing his legs. He moves likes silk, so smooth his clothes don’t rustle, but with silent energy coiling underneath. Sherlock can’t help the feeling that he’s poised to strike.

He sits. He runs his gaze over the man again. He doesn’t expect there to be much to read, and he’s not wrong; Moriarty is flawlessly presented, with not a hair to give away details, no drop of water to indicate weather, no dust, no mud, no clues. The only thing Sherlock is sure of is _unarmed_ , and that’s no comfort. Moriarty is small, but he’s going to be fast. He’s not skinny either; slim, yes, but there’s plenty of muscle packed over that frame.

‘Finished?’ A cup is pushed to Sherlock’s side of the table. ‘Learn anything this time?’

‘If I did, it’d only be something you wanted me to see. It wouldn’t be anything helpful.’

‘True.’ Moriarty sits back, re-crossing his legs silently, his cup balanced perfectly on its saucer. Not a ripple on the surface of the tea. ‘But feel free to keep looking, I don’t mind.’

Sherlock averts his eyes at once, picking up the sugar tongs and adding two cubes to his drink. He ignores the gentle huff of laughter that barely makes it to his ears. 

‘So what’s this about, Sherlock?’

Sherlock settles in his chair, his mind racing but endeavouring to appear as calm as Moriarty. ‘It seems stupid to waste breath and say ‘can’t you guess’, but oh look, I did it anyway.’

A sculpted eyebrow is raised a millimetre or two, a silent line of question. ‘You’re the one who wanted to meet, my dear. I’m humouring your childish impulses. Consider it an early Christmas present, if you like.’

Sherlock swallows. His mouth is drier than he’d like. ‘You seem to be sending me a lot of gifts recently. Are we going to get to one I like, soon?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. It’s hard, isn’t it, shopping for the man who has everything he needs? Don’t you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘But then, sometimes a person doesn’t know what they need until they’ve got it.’

Moriarty is so still. He hadn’t been still at the pool, pacing his way towards them. No, not still, but always contained. Never a chance of being ruffled, not even when John grabbed him. Perfect control. But he was performing then. The show today is different; Sherlock might consider it not a performance at all, except nobody can be that smooth all the time. Words seem to roll off him, and the ones coming out are amused, yes, but still listless. It’s like he’s reading his part from a script in his head, watching Sherlock from somewhere behind those black holes of eyes, using his own face as a mask. He’d give a lot to know what the mind inside is making of all this, and is aware he never will.

‘Tell me what I need, then. Tell me why you’re doing this. What you’ve given me doesn’t make any sense, but-‘

‘Oh, stop it.’

Sherlock stops. Moriarty’s voice is soft, bored, and…resigned, almost. That’s not surprising; what _is_ is the twist of embarrassment inside his own chest at having being caught being so obvious. He takes a sip of tea to cover it. Moriarty watches him with clear disappointment, and closes his eyes for a few seconds.

‘Do I really need to give you that much help?’

‘I think, _James_ , that maybe I don’t want to play this game. Maybe my brother’s right for once, and you’re fabricating the entire thing for your own amusement.’ 

If anything, he looks even more bored. Sherlock feels his brow quirk of its own accord, and smooths it out at once. He’s never seen anyone look quite so tired with anything.

‘If I were doing that, don’t you think I’d be having more fun already? Instead of watching you chase your own tail, wishing you’d just get on with it? Disappearing off to _think_ , instead of-‘

He breaks off, and waves a disinterested hand. ‘You’ll play the game Sherlock, because you can’t not. You know it, I know it. And this isn’t just any old case. Noooooo, no no no, this is about _you-_ ’ he leans in, his eyes caught on Sherlock’s, and Sherlock can feel himself dragged in towards the pull of that mind, the first hint of something inside coming out to the surface, ‘-about you, and me, and you might hate anything that forces you to think about yourself, but you’re going to. I promise you that. You’re _going_ to.’

Sherlock has no idea how long the silence lasts. He’s aware of the heat from the fire on the left side of his face, and a vague smell of burning, and the light glinting off Moriarty’s gelled hair; the sharp white of his shirt, a flash of red like blood on snow, and his eyes; endless dark that seems to be creeping towards him, reaching out to swallow him down.

Sherlock pulls back, looks down, and runs his tongue over his dry lower lip. He stares into his tea, and then takes another sip simply to inject some movement that can bring any kind of normality to this. 

‘You can’t have been there. You can’t know anything about it.’

‘Can’t I? I know more than you, and you _were_ there.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘No. I’m not.’

Sherlock looks up. Moriarty is back in his neat containment, entirely within himself. But there’s something in the air, something that escaped while they were looking at each other. Sherlock can find no other word to describe it but _hungry_. And he doesn’t think he’s lying.

He sets his cup down, and tries to ensure his voice comes out strongly.

‘You won’t tell me why then, because it’s part of the reveal. You want me to work it out for myself and in doing so, I’ll discover the how. Or the connection. There must be one. You can’t have been there, you can’t have killed him. But maybe you know who did.’

Moriarty watches for a long, long minute. Then he lets out a breath, and raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘Good boy,’ he says, tonelessly, and Sherlock wonders whether he’d be able to rip the man’s head off and make it out of the hotel before any snipers gunned him down.

‘Don’t do that. I’m not your dog.’

‘Aren’t you.’

Moriarty checks his watch, and stands up. He moves so fast from a position of utter stillness, he hardly seems real. Sherlock leans back on instinct, then stands too and looks down on him. If Moriarty is bothered by having to look up a few inches, it doesn’t show.

‘Do better, Sherlock. You’re boring me.’

‘If I’m so slow, give me a clue. You know there’s no background history on you, you’ve made sure of it. You know I can’t confirm where you were when it happened. You know there’s nothing to connect the two of us at that age, so _why_ are you saying there is?’

‘Because there is. Obviously. And I’ve already given you a clue.’

Sherlock stands perfectly still as Moriarty slides past him. Close; too close. And then he stops. 

They’re shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions. Sherlock turns his head on instinct as the fabric of their jackets brush, close enough to catch the light waft of tasteful cologne, close enough to be hit by the reality of _colour_. Black, and that hint of red. A Black Widow inching back to the centre of its web. Moriarty turns his head as well, and they’re eye to eye. His pupils are blown in the muted light of the room, pulling him in all over again, sucking a star towards their depths of entropy.

For the briefest second, Sherlock imagines grabbing him, turning him around and forcing a reaction. Real blood, real shock, anything _real_ that would make this less of a tangle. His hands bunch into fists at his side, and he can feel muscles tighten at the hinges of his jaw. But he does nothing. If he did, he’d already have lost. Moriarty would only laugh. Or worse, do nothing at all. _Let_ him win.

‘Atta boy. You’ve learned some measure of control, at least. Being off the drugs probably helps.’

It’s little more than a whisper. Sherlock can’t look away.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘I know. Just…think of me as the Ghost of Christmas Past.’

A beat, that drags on and on.

‘…and present. And future.’ 

Sherlock blinks. New information to process. The moment breaks and Moriarty nods once, walks to the door, pauses long enough to take his phone from his pocket, and starts to type with his left thumb.

‘This was a waste of both our time. You can text me if you need your head patted again. Even call, I don’t mind. But don’t put me in a chair to be mooned at again, Sherlock. I’m a busy man.’

He puts the phone to his ear. Three seconds and he’ll be gone. Sherlock sees his hand move to the doorknob, and knows he has to say _something_. 

‘What do you get out of this? If I solve your puzzle?’

There’s another quirked eyebrow. ‘Satisfaction. And maybe more.’

‘…and what do I get? Just the truth? A truth I might not even want?’

‘You always want the truth, Sherlock. You’re obsessed with it. But no, there’s something else. Something _good_.’

‘And what’s that?’

For the first time, an expression crosses Moriarty’s face. His eyes blaze to life and a smile flashes up, bright as a new dawn seen from space.

‘Ohhhh, I’m not going to spoil the surprise.’ 

Sherlock can only blink at him. 

‘Ciao, darling.’

And then he’s gone, his voice carrying as the door closes, ordering his car to be brought to the front. Sherlock listens until the murmurs of it have slipped away, his mind ticking over everything he’s just seen, heard, deduced, learnt. The last two take no time at all. The first two…he’s not sure. He’s not sure what he feels, but that doesn’t matter; he discards that and brings up what he _knows_.

Moriarty isn’t lying. There’s something. And there’s been a clue, so it’s time to get back to Baker Street. He’s been wallowing in confusion and fear for long enough. The game is on, and he needs to get to work.

 

 

 


	9. Fruitcake and other things that separate us

 

**December 9th.**

 

A door is banging. And then…voices. Mrs Hudson. And then silence.

John drags his duvet up to his ears, trying to ignore the grey light that tells him it’s dawn. It’s his day off, and when he’s got the flat to himself he should be allowed to sleep in. God knows he gets little enough of it when Sherlock’s here.

The violin has probably been playing a full five minutes before it registers as a) real, and b) that only one person plays a violin around here. John’s body sits up before his mind tells it to, and he’s on his feet and getting dressed without much further intervention from his brain.

‘Sherlock. _Sherlock_.’

He’s still in his coat, and the clothes he was wearing days ago. He looks a mess, and the tune he’s playing is fast, on the point of frenetic, notes collecting under his fingers and then pouring out in a torrent without end. Either he doesn’t hear his name or he’s ignoring it, or he’s so far in his head it doesn’t register. John bites his lip and watches for a minute. Sherlock doesn’t turn around. 

Bathroom. Brush teeth. Tea. He gets as far as putting some toast on before impatience gets the better of him.

‘ _Sherlock!’_

‘John. _What?_ ’

The music stops suddenly, almost violently. Silence floods in, jarring the room to stillness. John blinks, and tries to pull his tired thoughts together in the midst of it crashing around him.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Doesn’t matter. When was Mycroft here? No, don’t tell me. It was two days ago. Your incessant texting stopped, or at least slowed down, so you spoke to him and he told you he was watching me. Why are there decorations?’

‘It’s Christmas.’

‘No, it isn’t. Not yet. Is there fruit cake?’

‘It’s eight in the morning. And I don’t like fruit cake.’

‘You have to like fruit cake, it’s Christmas. Where are you hiding it?’

John stifles a sigh as Sherlock barges into the kitchen, and starts rooting through the cupboards. He smells of dirt and rain, vaguely unwashed but not so bad that he hasn’t been near water for the full five days of his absence. That’s a good sign. It means he hasn’t been in some drug den for the better part of a week.

‘So, what’s going on?’

‘What do you mean? I’ve been working.'

‘On this case of Moriarty’s.’

‘Of course on this case of Moriarty’s, you don’t think - well no, you don’t think do you, but…is that my toast?’

‘No, it’s my toast. Would you calm down and talk to me?’

‘Can’t. He left a clue, he said. But I’ve looked over everything he left, and I’m just not _seeing_ it. He hasn’t been in the flat, so it must have been with the boots, or the box, but I’ve been over them and-‘

Sherlock pops the toaster early, and starts spreading butter with sharp, scraping motions. John is about to object when the words connect in his brain.

‘He said he left a clue? When did he say that?’

‘What? Oh. Doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter. Have you been speaking to him?’

‘Met him yesterday.’

‘You met him. Yesterday.’

‘Mm. At the Four Seasons. I’m not meaning to judge or compare, John, but _he_ had fruit cake.’

Sherlock’s flashed grin is sharp, but his eyes aren’t focused quite right; not high, John thinks, but seeing something else. Someone else. And despite how much this had obviously shaken him a few days ago, it’s unmistakable, that gleam of satisfaction. He always gets that on the few occasions something comes along to really make him think.

John realises he’s taken a step back from him, but only because Sherlock frowns as he snatches a bite off the slice of toast.

‘Oh, _what_? Of course I wanted to meet him, I need to find out what this is about.’

‘And did you? Clearly not.’

‘No. But- - I don’t know. Something. Something about _him_. He’s-‘

The pause goes on long enough that John can’t stand it, because of course it’s _him_ , _he_ always inspires this reaction and it’s not normal, it’s not _good_. When there’s no case, Sherlock seems happy enough to forget that Moriarty’s out there somewhere, circling around like a shark in deep water. But as soon as he glides up from whatever depths he keeps himself at, Sherlock can’t help but break out of the cage and swim down to meet him.

Whatever Mycroft says, John has no idea how to stop him doing it. He wishes he could. It’s not going to end well.

‘What is he?’

‘I’ve no idea. Interesting. He’s interesting.’

‘But you’re not going to meet him again.’

‘Don’t know. No, probably not. Not yet, not until I’ve solved it. Maybe, we’ll see. I need a bath.’

The kitchen settles as Sherlock whirls off into his bedroom. John sucks in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly between his teeth. His fists are clenched. He hadn’t noticed they’d done it.

‘Mycroft said I should stop you meeting him.’ He calls it out, without turning around. ‘He said everything you’d hear would be a lie.’

‘Mycroft has his own agenda. _Mycroft_ doesn’t want the truth to come out. If I knew why, the case would be closed.’

John turns, to be faced with a half-stripped Sherlock with a dressing gown slung over his shoulder, one foot in the bathroom.

‘Sherlock. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You were really spooked the other night, and I was worried.’

He watches the dark head whip ‘round, as if mentioning the fear is a low blow that should never be struck. But it’s not a low blow if it’s concern and anyway, he’s been worried for days. An explanation is not unreasonable. Even Sherlock seems to realise it, because his frown clears and his voice softens. 

’He’s implying he was around before Carl Powers. That he…did something to my family, to…me. I suppose. I’m not sure. I don’t see how he could of, or why he would have wanted to.’

‘What did he do? I mean, what did he imply he’s done?’

‘Killed my dog.’

It’s almost defiant, the way he says it, like he’s daring John to think it’s not a big deal. And John isn’t sure what to think about it because dogs die, it’s sometimes part of the reason parents get pets. So their children will learn that loved ones don’t last forever. But he knows it can be hard, and to a child like Sherlock? Difficult to say, really; he finds it hard to imagine either Holmes brother ever having been young. He knows they didn’t have friends, though. Maybe a dog was especially important in Sherlock’s case.

‘Right. And how old-‘

‘Doesn’t matter. I need a bath. I need to think.’

The door closes. John waits until water’s running, and then pulls in another breath. Right then. The game is on, apparently. If they’re going to investigate the death of a dog, then they are. But there’s time for breakfast first, and after that…well, they’ll see. Sherlock will come up with something. He always does.

 


	10. No, THIS is the worst holiday song of all tim

 

 

 

**December 10th.**

 

‘Sebastian, what the hell are you listening to?’

Sebastian startles, causing water to slop over the sides of the bath and splatter over the tiles. He winces as Jim curses and jumps back, because forcing Moriarty to react unexpectedly never goes well.

‘Sorry, Boss. It’s Iron Maiden.’

‘Turn it off, it’s making my ears bleed.’

If Jim were a normal person, Seb would point out that there’s a control panel right by his hand, and he could turn it off himself. He could shut down the speakers, shut down the whole house with a few touches of a button. But Jim is not a normal person, and he just nearly got water on his suit. Seb nods, and searches behind his head with a soap-covered hand, looking for the iPod on its dock.

‘Jesus Christ. Maybe I’ll get it voice activated for you, would that be easier?’

He doesn’t apologise again, because Jim hates that. And he doesn’t turn over to find the remote, because Jim hasn’t left the bathroom. If he was really angry, he’d be gone by now. Not standing there, looking. Not leaning on the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded over his chest.

Seb switches Iron Maiden off and starts scrolling for something more suitable, being very careful to ignore the gaze he knows is roaming up and down his body. When Jim doesn’t speak he bends a leg, letting one muscular thigh rise up out of the water. There’s not many bubbles left, but a few slick down his skin. There’s a snort from over by the door.

‘Subtle, darling.’

Seb shrugs. ‘It’s been a while. You’ve been busy.’

‘I suppose it has.’

He glances over. Jim looks white, a little drawn. But mostly relaxed too, free of the tension that overtakes him sometimes. He’s a little too thin because he loses weight fast, and he hasn’t eaten properly since the brush with hypothermia. But he looks good. He always looks good in a dark suit.

‘How did your meeting with Holmes go?’

‘Unproductive, for the most part. He’s clueless.’

‘We all are on this one.’

The silence betrays what a stupid thing that was to say, and Seb adds, ‘except you, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

His thumb stops on a playlist that’s almost a year old. He grins, and hits ‘shuffle’ and definitely doesn’t look in Jim’s direction as he plugs it back in. Frank Sinatra singing ‘Jingle Bells’ makes itself known over the speakers. Sebastian picks up the shampoo.

‘You’re a fucking idiot, Moran. With no taste in anything except men.’

‘I know. But you like telling me I’m an idiot, so it works out fine.’

Jim must be in a good mood. He still doesn’t leave, and Seb feels his pulse pick up the way it always does when the boss sticks around, the air starting to settle into a close grip of anticipation. It doesn’t mean anything, of course; Jim could turn around and walk out of the house, and not be seen for a month. But sometimes he doesn't walk away, and he can only hope this is one of those times.

He glances over again. Jim is watching him with a smile touching a corner of his mouth, his arms still crossed. Seb tries to look indifferent but he must fail, because there’s a sigh and he starts easing his silk tie loose.

‘How long have you been in there? The whole upstairs smells like a gym changing room.’

‘About an hour. It’s a muscle soak. Have you ever been in a gym?’

The air freezes. Oops.

‘-I mean, apart from your private one.’

‘Of course I have.’

Annnnd, the air warms a degree. Seb allows that this might actually happen, because a comment like that often means no touch other than his own for at least a few weeks. A few months, once, after he dared ask Jim about what looked like a love bite on his neck. He had nearly caught a knife in the eye that time. The mark left behind is scarring; a permanent reminder that Jim Moriarty does what the fuck he wants, who the fuck he wants, and won’t be held by some delusion of normal behavioural rules. 

‘Is that where you’ve been, Sebastian? Of course it is. Keeping yourself nice and fit for me.’

He forces himself not to look up, though the voice is getting closer and he can hear the rustle of fabric as it comes off.  But he only gives in to hope when fingers push into his hair, sending a thrill down his nerves and making him look up. Jim stands over him, stripped to the waist, showing off a delicious expanse of pale skin pulled tight over muscle and bone.

Seb nods. ‘It’s not just about the look. Helps keep me alive, too. ’

Jim looks amused. ‘Does it?’

Maybe not. When you practically live with a man like Jim Moriarty, there’s not much that’ll keep you alive. 

‘I like to think so.’

‘Mm.’ Jim’s finger wanders down Seb’s cheek, and then jaw, and then falls away. ‘Hands on the sides of the bath, darling.’

He does as he’s told. He always does. It never fails to make Jim smile, and it never fails to give _him_ what he needs; the exquisite fear of handing himself over to unsafe hands, not knowing what might happen. It’s a rush like no other.

‘Touch me without permission, you’ll be cleaning your guns with your tongue for the next six months. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

He hasn’t been told not to look, though. He watches as Jim slips the end of his belt through the buckle, flicks the button of his trousers open, slides his zipper down. He’s very aware of his own breathing, and the weight of the air in the room; it presses in, wet and thick, steam long since turned to condensation and running down the tiles. Everything’s a warm haze, closing around the two of them as Jim steps out of his trousers and folds them over the back of a chair, drops his underwear and kicks it across the room with a careless foot. He gets into the bath with easy grace, and crouches between Seb’s legs, his feet flat on the bottom of the bathtub, his arms wrapped around his knees. Up close, he’s all eyes and quiet energy. The malevolence is there, always there, but it’s roaming under the surface today, just peeking out in the sarcastic curve of his lips.

‘What do you want, Seb?’

He swallows hard. His cock doesn’t care how dangerous Jim is. His cock _loves_ that about him, and is letting it be known in no uncertain terms.

‘Anything, boss.’

‘Useless answer. Try again; last chance.’

It’s not a idle threat. He knows from frustrating experience.

‘I’d like to fuck you. Please.’

‘Nope. Not on the table. Not today, not after that quip about the gym and not after playing fucking Jingle Bells. Which is, by the way, the worst Christmas song of all time.’

‘I’d like you to fuck me?’

‘More likely, but I can’t be bothered. Why don’t I just amuse myself why you decide what you deserve? See how long it takes you.’

Jim is in a spiteful mood today, it seems. What Seb wants is to pull him forward and get inside him as quickly as possible. He wants to put his arms around him and work his whole body up and down, as much skin-on-skin as is humanly possible, drown himself in Moriarty for an hour or two because it’ll probably be the last taste he gets for a while. He wants to bend him over and make him yell, break that iron control in ways he’s not sure is even possible. He wants to see some genuine life in those eyes instead of permanent, mocking, condescension. He wants to make him real, just for a little bit. Just to prove a man exists in there at all.

What he gets is Jim’s fingers closing tightly around his cock. It’s an expert hand, giving just the right friction, edging just on the right side of pain, and Seb would dearly, _dearly_ like to know where he got his expertise from, because he doesn’t seem to spend much time fucking these days - - but God, he knows how to do this. A twist of the thumb, fast enough to make his blood hum, not fast enough to rush it and ruin things.

‘Do you really want to fuck me, Seb?’ It’s a harsh whisper, breathed much closer to his lips than he realised Jim was. It seems he’s closed his eyes, and let the little viper in too close to his throat. Teeth close on him, nipping at the skin over his jugular. He swallows hard, and nods.

‘Why?’

‘Feels good.’

‘Blowjobs feel good. Handjobs feel good. But you don’t want that, you want to bend me over something and ride my arse. Don’t you?’

God, he does, he really does. The image rises in his mind; Jim bent double and hanging on to something while he fucks him roughly from behind. Or even better, face down in a pillow with his arse in the air, red-faced and sweating, taking what he’s given. Seb groans. Jim chuckles into his neck, and starts twisting his thumb off the head of his cock. His fingers ripple up the shaft, form a ring under the ridge and start nudging up and down, pressure over the most sensitive patch of him. Seb’s legs twitch apart, his heels pushing into the floor and thrusting him up into the touch.

‘Look at you. I’ve hardly touched you and you’re gagging for it. It’s pathetic, Seb.’

‘Sorry, Boss. It’s been a while.’

‘One more excuse, and I’m getting out of this bath. If you come without permission, you’ll be in a chastity belt for two weeks.’

Seb grits his teeth, and tries to get a handle on it. It’s not the hand that’s the problem, it’s Jim himself. Right there, and out of reach. Laughing at him even as he gets him off. It’s a power trip and an ego boost, all wrapped in a delicious package of big brown eyes and a wicked smile.

He sometimes wishes he could hate Jim. But frustration is the best he can manage, and he always comes back for more. Maybe this is why; the soft whisper of his lips as he mouths a line up the tendon in his neck, the faint smell of expensive cologne and peppermint gum, the way the light gleams off his gelled hair, and that hand, _God,_ that hand, stripping him relentlessly, just how he likes it. He chokes a breath out, and earns a soft laugh.

‘You do have a beautiful cock, Seb. It does fill me up rather well, doesn’t it? I know you want me on it.’

It’s not a question, but it seems to require an answer. Seb nods fast, trying to swallow, trying not to focus on the pressure building between his legs.

‘I do want you on it.’

‘Or maybe you want me to suck it. Would you like that, Seb? I’ve never sucked it; do you think you’d enjoy it?’

He can only moan. Jim on his knees, looking up with those eyes. Sliding the length of him down his throat, sucking with hollowed cheeks, wet lips, maybe he’d choke on the heft, lick up the mess, moan when he made him come…

‘Jim, please.’

‘Please what?’

‘Let me come.’

‘Mm. Don’t know. Do you think-‘

‘ _Please._ ’

‘-you deserve it?’

He nods fast, too fast, and Jim tuts and shakes his head. But he doesn’t stop working him over his palm, using short, hard strokes against the soft pad of his thumb, teasing down the slit. Seb keens in the back of his throat and tries to thrust upwards, his balls tight and swollen, aching to come.

‘Jim-‘

A sigh.

‘Oh, go on then. If you must.’

He must. He does. Weeks and weeks of frustration and lust boil out of him on command, leaving thick ribbons of white up his stomach and chest, coating Jim’s fingers. Seb can barely focus through the haze of pleasure, the sheer relief of it. His muscles relax group by group, leaving him lightheaded in the wet air, adrenaline surging through his blood and leaving a warm haze behind.

‘Lovely.’ Jim’s tone is flat, and he’s scowling at the spunk on his hand.

‘Sorry?’

Seb’s not sure what he was supposed to do about that, but it wouldn’t matter if he had, it’d still be his fault. All he can do is sit there, still gripping the sides of the bathtub, and accept it as Jim wipes the mess down his jaw. He doesn’t move. The boss has gone dark, and arguing will only mean blood.

‘Want me to suck you off? Or you can still fuck me if you want.’

‘No, and no. Clean up and get back to work.’ Jim’s standing, disdain written through every line of his body. Seb has no idea why, or what he did wrong, but that’s not unusual. The man’s not even hard. ‘I’m going away for a few days. Don’t text me unless I do first, or it’s an emergency.’

‘…right. Okay.'

He might as well not have spoken. Jim’s pulling his phone from the pocket of his trousers, already engrossed in whatever he’s got going on. Seb pulls his mind from the post-orgasm haze, and tries to focus.

‘Is everything all right? Is this to do with Holmes?’

He doesn’t get so much as glance his way. He wanders towards the door, stark naked, starting to type with his left thumb. ‘I said get back to work, didn’t I?’ he says in a bored tone, and then he’s gone.

Seb watches the space where he was for a few seconds, and then blinks and shakes it off. There are a multitude of reasons why the boss could be in a mood, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s got bored halfway through sex and given it up for something else. But…he doesn’t know. It’s nothing he can put his finger on. Something seems off, and has done for the last couple of weeks, ever since he had Sebastian drop a box off at Baker Street. He’s always preoccupied, but now it feels like he’s…waiting for something. What did he say about Holmes? _He’s clueless_. Maybe that’s it. He’d been happy about that box, and things have been going steadily downhill since. Maybe he expected things to be happening by now.

He sniffs, and starts cleaning off. He has work to do. But if Jim’s going to be away for a few days, there’ll be some free time as well. Maybe there’ll be a bit of space. If there is, maybe he can find out what’s going on.

 

 

 


	11. Holidays: the worst possible choice to bring someone home for the first time

 

 

 

**December 11th.**

 

 

Sussex is hardly the back of beyond, but it’s far enough away from London to make Jim annoyed at the lack of anything stimulating. The roads aren’t busy enough, and the wifi in the hotel he stayed in last night was bad enough to make him want to claw the furniture. It was too quiet to sleep properly, far worse than when he has noise to distract him from his thoughts. But he’s used to being tired, he’s always fucking tired. Anyway, logic suggests the real reason for his mood is being back in Sussex at all, and far too close to Brighton for his liking.

He drives distractedly, thinking about anything that isn’t the landscape around him. He avoids the roads that’d give him a view of the sea, even though one or two of them would be quicker. He considers that this job would go a lot quicker if the team he contacted yesterday weren’t being useless. On top of that, it’s going to snow. The sky over the water is clear blue, but the wind from the north is blowing ice and iron, dragging fat white clouds in its wake. He can smell it coming, inevitable as the tide rocking up against the stupid white fucking cliffs.

He arrives at a house just outside a small village. It’s a big house, affluent, with an orchard and fields, and a long driveway that sets it back off the road. Not a mansion, nothing so ostentatious. But very comfortable, perfect for any upper-middle-class family raising their rug-rats in England’s wealthy South East. Jim drives past a lawn with child-sized football posts on it, and there are pink bikes leaning on the wall next to the double garage. One of those enormous trampolines surrounded by nets too, though that’s lying on its side, knocked over by the black SUV that has recently ploughed into it.

He parks his Audi by the front door, and checks his phone. Sebastian has listened to the instruction not to text, and there’s only a few emails about jobs already in progress. He types, half-listening to a bang and some shouts that come from his right, but dismissing them as unimportant. He’s just finished his third reply when a text flashes up, and he gets out of the car. He puts his coat on before going anywhere. The wind has a bite that makes him want to bite back; he’s reminded, out of nowhere, how furious he’d been as a child, learning that some things - the weather, his own temper - seemed immune to any sort of control. For a boy who could do anything, it was a harsh lesson in reality. He may have learned to lash his temper down, but there’s still nothing he can do about the wind.

He rings the doorbell. It’s answered by a person covered head to toe in black body armour, holding an assault rifle. Jim says, ‘Tiberius,’ and the person steps aside.

Inside, the house is quite lovely. Tasteful, expensive decor, and designed with an emphasis on light and space. Jim approves of both, because cluttered decor drives him out of his mind. He doesn't know how Sherlock bears Baker Street. If he had to be there for more than ten minutes at a time, he’d burn that wallpaper off the walls. 

He walks the length of the place, touching a bannister here and a worktop there, avoiding evidence of a small child by stepping over a few bright red plastic _things_ \- though perhaps they’re dog toys, it’s just as likely - and ignoring whimpers and quiet ‘ssh’ noises from an adult. Jim’s remembering what this place looked like before someone had the sense to get an architect in. There was a bookshelf against this wall, which doesn’t currently exist, but used to divide the kitchen and the dining room. The living area used to be a study. There was a piano and a thick red carpet, a desk of heavy wood, an open fire, and a picture hanging over the mantelpiece. Some dreadful depiction of a classic English hunting scene, all sludge brown and green, with dots of red meaning huntsmen. Jim stands where the desk chair used to be, and watches someone sitting there in his mind’s eye. He smiles at the memory, malice twisting his mouth to a sharp line. 

It’s broken by someone saying, ‘mama’ in a stricken tone. Jim turns to face the noise, and looks over the family one at a time. A man, a woman, two children not quite school-age, and one baby. Boring. He picks a black-clad figure at random, and says, ‘take them away.’

He helps himself to a seat while the commotion happens behind him. When everything’s quiet, he doesn’t look up. He just sends a text, and then settles back to wait.

_Christmas is a terrible time for family, don’t you think? Especially if you’re stupid enough to bring an unwanted guest. JM xxx_

It’s five minutes before a reply turns up, but Jim’s already dozed off by then. He’s very tired, and there’s plenty of noise in this place. A whole childhood’s worth. More than enough to get him away from his thoughts, and let him get some rest.

 

 

 


End file.
